


Addicted.

by DevineElocution



Series: Amor en una Nube [2]
Category: Hotel Persona, Placebo
Genre: Drugs, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevineElocution/pseuds/DevineElocution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stefan goes back on a major promise, David breaks one as well for the sake of keeping them both from falling apart.</p><p>[Set during early-mid 2006, later jumps to mid-late '07]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day of Dawning

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** I do not know, and certainly do not own any (front or touring) member of Placebo. Likewise, I do not know or own any member of Hotel Persona.

A horde of 20,000 people screaming one word in unison,

nothing more than a distant echo. 

Piercing lights of every color slicing lines through the darkened backdrop,

imperceptible hues unnoticed by bleary eyes.

Encouraging cheers from familiar faces,

reduced to dull mumbles from distorted creatures. 

 

People he once knew gather around. He knows their names, their voices, their body language. He doesn't know  _them._

He's lost in this place he's seen a million times. He's incapable of fulfilling the task he's done for years. 

He stands in the same square foot where he's been for who knows how long. Awhile. He doesn't remember his place.

There's a scrap of energy left, at best. It fuels the powers of deduction. 

He's not the drummer, not the beat, 

he's not the pianist, not the melody, 

he's not the singer, not the song.

He's not the willing hands backing everything up, not the rhythmic glue. 

 

He thinks about laughing, but the act doesn't happen. Glue. He could never be glue. He's coming loose at the seams, stitch by stitch. He needs a needle and thread, he  _needs_  glue. He needs to patch the cracks that are starting to show. 

There's no time for that now. An outside force has shown mercy on his defunct mind.

He feels the weight on his shoulders, crumpling, crushing him to the ground. He looks down to make sure there's a ground to come crashing to, and instead finds that he's been grounded in reality. The kind force that eased his mind has simultaneously shown him his place, what he does, and given him the tool with which to do it. 

He delicately traces over four strings. He recognises this as the item listed just after 'breathing' and 'blinking' in his mental notes. 

 

The four people who were around him careen forward and disperse across the stage. His feet start moving and his arm raises for what he assumes was a wave. 

 

He takes a deep breath and holds it,

clinches his eyes shut and bows his head, 

takes a pick from the mic stand and rests his prepared hand over the arching curve of his bass. 

He exhales and opens his eyes. 

He can see every note of every song he's ever written, recorded, performed, or heard, etched on the back of his gaunt hand. 

He lifts his head. 

 

For the next hour and a half,

he breathes,

blinks, 

even steps around the stage a bit, 

and plays every note.

 

For an hour and a half,

in front of 20,000 people, 

he wasn't there. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to get a bit more confident with writing fan fiction, so my brain's all like, 'Hey! Let's get really fuckin' experimental!' Consider yourself warned.  
> Also, pardon my steamy love affair with commas. I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to cool it a bit.


	2. El Día en las Nubes

There's fog. Tangible fog.

He sees it, it's outside of his own mind for once. It's outside the window.

 

He looks around and finds two familiar faces. One to his left, one behind him. They have names that he knows.

He doesn't  _know_  them. 

The rhythmic glue is behind him. He thinks about laughing, again. This time it happens. The sweet face next to him makes a sound.

No, not a sound.

A word. Words.

'Stef sweetheart, you look a bit pale. Do you feel alright?' 

This small face with large, dark eyes wants words back. He knows this face is called Alex.

 

 _Does_ he feel okay? Does he  _feel?_  He can't feel his legs. He moves his arms, watches his fingers wiggle about in front of eyes. Is he moving them? He can't feel it. 

The dark eyes are still looking at him. Brown is the colour of concern. 

 

'Yes,' he lies to the sweet eyes, he lies to Alex. 

He looks behind him again, glue is still there. This face, too, has brown eyes. Perhaps they're not eyes, perhaps they're gems. They're protected behind glass. He knows this face is nice. This face makes expressions to many names, though most commonly, Bill. 

The concerned brown eyes in the sweet face are emitting sentences again. He doesn't have to give words back this time. 

'David phoned this morning. He's back home, can't wait to see you.' 

David. 

David has brown eyes, too.

 

He doesn't want to see David. That's a lie, he does. He doesn't want to _hear_  David. That's another lie.

He's on a roll with lying today.

He doesn't want to hear himself. He doesn't want to hear the terrible things he said, yelled, screamed. He doesn't want to hear the anger, the frustration he threw at David, the names he called David. 

Fair-weather boyfriend, thoughtless, liar, 

he said David had abandoned him, betrayed him, didn't care. He said evil things in Spanish. 

Untrue. All of it was untrue. He'd misplaced his anger, he fucked up, he put it all on David. 

 

Wait, this morning? David phoned this morning? He said these horrible things to David  _before_  he blinked and breathed and played notes from the back of his hand. 

He's lost hours. Night hours, morning hours, plane-boarding hours. He didn't sleep for all those hours, they were just  _gone._

A feeling, he felt, he _feels_  something. His chest feels weird. It aches, he aches, everywhere. He aches to hear David, hear Spanish lullabies that he doesn't entirely understand. He aches to see those brown eyes, stare into them. 

No. 

He doesn't want to stare into them, he doesn't want to stare into the needless pain _he_  created. 

 

Enough with the brown eyes!

There were blue eyes, somewhere. Blue eyes, in a pale face, with a midnight black frame. He looks around, where are the blue eyes? That face has a name, too. He remembers this name easily, it's etched onto his other hand, the one without the notes to play,

Brian. 

'Where's Brian?' 

He feels something again, 

frantic. 

'Where's Brian?!' 

Bill with the protected brown gems leans forward. 

'He's going to New York, remember?' 

He doesn't remember. He knows the blue eyes in the pale face are going to New York to be with the baby, Brian's son. He knows this because of logic, reasoning, assumption. He doesn't remember the solid decision being made, or anyone telling him.  

He doesn't remember anything,

he  _can't._  

Not just hours, but entire days are gone. 

 

His last clear memory is that of leaving a hotel, getting in a different car than David, being taken opposite directions.

David went back home.

He sat while the blue eyes talked to people. People who spewed words endlessly, people who wanted more and more words in return.

There were other eyes with him and the blue ones. Brown, as well. He doesn't know why, but his mind evicts the thought of the unknown brown eyes. 

 

He feels something, again. Sad, 

and sore. 

Tingly, he feels tingly everywhere. And his clothes are too tight. No, it's his skin. His bones are too big, his skin is too small. The pulling makes him itchy. Everywhere. 

His left arm isn't so itchy anymore. He looks down. 

 _Oh, yeah, just scratch where it itches. Duh,_ he thinks. 

He scratches everywhere. It starts to feel better. The sweet brown eyes next to him are concerned again. 

'You sure you're alright?' 

'Yeah,' he lies, again. 

Somehow, he knows he's on a plane, though he's not at all sure how, or when, he got here, or where he's going. Home, he guesses. 

 

He needs to move, 

get up, 

stretch, 

walk. 

 _Can_  he walk? He can't feel his legs.

He decides to try anyway. 

 

Inexplicable luck kicks in. 

He stands, climbs over sweet Alex, doesn't step on her.

He walks to the back of the plane. His feet are doing quite well, they must have a mind of their own. _Good,_  he decides. His skull doesn't have a mind of  _its_  own.

It's supposed to.

 

There's a door marked 'Lavatory', it's unlocked. 

He steps in, locks the door, scratches at his hand. The notes to play vanish,

he looks up. 

There's somebody else in there with him. 

Also tall, 

grey, so grey. 

Dark circles under sunken eyes, in a face that's no more than a bit of tissue clinging to bone. 

It's not another person, it's a reflection, _h_ _is_   reflection. 

He raises a hand to the mirror, touches it. The reflection _is_   his. 

 _No,_ he thinks,  _it can't be._ He doesn't recognise the person staring back. 

Suddenly, he remembers seeing this person before, thinking the same thing. 

_It can't be._

This isn't his body, 

his mind, 

his wants. 

It's the bad habit. 

 

There's a problem. 

This isn't him. 

 


	3. Night of Return

Darkness fills all visual space. Any suggestion of the presence of light is overshadowed by an unbearable cold feeling. 

He starts to realise his face is cold, freezing. The feeling spreads down his right side, then his left. He reasons with himself, this _has_ to be the end, he's literally being picked apart bone-by-bone.

'Stef! Where's your key?!' someone yells. 

There's a soft illumination, cast from a halo just above their head. 

 

He's baffled at the thought that heaven exists, even more baffled at the thought that he wasn't sent to hell. Above all, he's absolutely dumbfounded that he was given a guardian angel. 

'STEF, come on! I don't think anyone's home to let you in.' 

Maybe he wasn't sent to heaven, he's just stuck in some unknown abyss. 

The angel disappears, the icy feeling goes with it.

 

He tries to stand, tries to walk, tries to find out what this place is. He's given a clue as his face promptly hits cold, wet pavement with a scraping thud.

He's nearing sobriety,

the jolting fall only makes re-entry into reality all the more difficult.

 

The angel quickly returns and pulls him from the ground by a hand supporting each arm. It spouts strings of words, heavily tinged with worry. 

With a fragile arm around this mysterious guardian to keep him upright, the two proceed to climb an infinite amount of stairs. Throughout the duration of their torturous journey, he realises he's alive, though barely, and the presumed heavenly figure is Bill. 

They arrive at a door. It seems familiar, but he's not sure why. 

Bill directs him inside. 

'Get some rest, okay? You need it. I'll call you tomorrow.' 

He watches as Bill leaves quietly. 

 

He looks around and starts to recognise things. 

The key that Bill found and left, in the right place, on the shelf by the door, 

his perfectly organised CD's, 

the red blanket with grey trim, tossed over the couch he's had for years.

 

Is the tour over already? 

 _Didn't it just start?_  he ponders. 

Whatever the reason, he's home now. 

He thinks about sinking into the sofa, letting it envelop him, never moving again. 

He thinks about what he's so afraid to see, yet wants more than anything else in the world right now. 

 

It comes out as something of a soft squeak,

a yelling whisper, 

a call-out, almost entirely silenced by caution:

'. . . David?'

 

* * *

 

I sat straight up and listened intently, searching for verification that it was indeed a mumble in the night that woke me from a dead sleep. After a few excruciating seconds of silence, I decided go searching for the source of the sound. 

I slipped out of bed and eased the door open. There, in the living room, stood a figure I knew so well, but almost couldn't identify. I breathed a sigh of relief, half-painted with surprise. 

'Stefan...'

 

The figure turned and stood, frozen, as though he didn't know his own name, or who I was, or where he was and why he was here. I ever so carefully stepped closer. Stefan remained still, his breathing shallow with apprehension and his perplexed gaze fixed on the person inquisitively approaching him.

I struggled to grasp the sight in front of me. I saw this diminished man just three weeks earlier. Sure, I'd noticed Stefan's clothes hung slightly looser and his ribcage had become more obvious, but there was still colour to his skin and vigour in his demeanour.

Without even realising at first, my fingertips raised to Stef's rawboned hand, then slowly to his prominent hipbones. They delicately continued over every painfully defined rib, across a sharp, jutting collarbone, and came to a hovering halt at the corner of Stefan's excruciatingly precise jaw.

Behind the trepidation in his eyes, I still saw a glimmer of _my_  Stefan. I cradled his face and, much to my surprise, the very gesture triggered a whimper and tear from the weary man. I pulled him close and held as tight as possible with regard to his fragile form. 

Stefan clung to me with a determination to never let go. I could feel the tears on my neck and the shivers of silent sobbing.

'I'm sorry,' Stef whispered. 'I'm so sorry...'

'Hey... It's okay,' I softly assured while swallowing back tears of my own. 'You're alright, it's okay,' I repeated again and again. 

I'm not sure if it got through to him or if his eyes just ran dry, but eventually Stef stopped shaking so violently and found the strength to shed the clothes infected with a world's worth of illness to change into the strangely comfortable half-zipped sweatshirt and underwear combination. 

I lolled on the sofa and Stefan curled up in my lap with his head on my chest. I wrapped his favourite blanket around us, flipped on some late-night comedy rerun and muted the sound. We laid in the dim flickering light from the television for hours, neither one of us actually watching the programme. Instead, Stefan stared at the street lamp in the parking lot, situated just past the window, while I became more entranced by the flutter of his eyelashes with every blink. 

As it did every morning at 6, the lamp switched off, which seemed to startle Stefan. He stared up at me for a moment with a strange mix of disbelief and deep affection in his expression. 

'Your lullabies don't always make sense,' he quietly pointed out. Subconsciously, I'd almost been waiting for him to catch on. A word like _ensueño_ is difficult to find a rhyme for with a hazy mind, on the fly, in the early hours of the morning after a long night out. Stefan's increasing knowledge of the Spanish language didn't help my case either. 

He shifted upwards a bit and nestled his head next to mine. 'But I still love them.' he finished. 

I turned off the telly and cuddled Stef in my arms. 'Do you want me to sing to you?' 

 _'Mhm...'_ he sleepily replied. 

I was far too tired to think, so I closed my eyes and defaulted to something that had been floating around my mind for awhile. 

_'Quiero volar quiero volar, quiero llegar a las nubes alto en el cielo...'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this whole thing is basically just one big experiment, I thought why not make it even more ~~disorienting~~ interesting and play around with a mix of present and past tense! AND I thought it would be fun to try writing in first person, but the parts that are from David's point of view were already written and proofed, so I basically just changed the pronouns and such. It reads a little weird, but hey, the whole thing kinda does.  
>  Also, sorry for the unintentional reoccurring alliteration.


	4. Day of Truth (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  This chapter contains mild violence, which may be disturbing to some readers.

Not long after sunrise, he wakes, by himself on the sofa. He sits up and lets his head hang in his hands as he tries to piece together anything from the last 24 hours.

Nothing clear cuts through the haze of his mind.

He looks at the clock and vaguely realises he's slept for about two hours. 

His brain aches beneath his skull, his skin is sore as though every inch is bruised. He can feel his body literally falling apart.

He hugs his knees to his chest. The faint scent of citrus Old Spice along his sleeve comforts him. 

It sparks the memory of the previous night, the relief of coming home and finding David,

still here, and apparently not angry or upset with him.

 

He slowly rises to his feet and searches the flat. He discovers most of his luggage has been unpacked and put away. 

He sits at the kitchen table and spots David on the fire escape, smoking.

A few minutes later, David climbs back in and sits with him, staring at him with a strange expression. 

 

'Bill called,' David finally says. 'He seemed worried, said you were pretty out of it yesterday.'

'Post-tour flu,' he lies. 

David's tone remains soft, asking a million questions without a single question at all:

'You've been pretty out of it for awhile, Stef...'

 

No. He's too sober to deal with what's coming, too far gone to avoid it any longer.

But he's tired. 

Tired of lying, tired of trying, tired of running just to go nowhere, 

literally sitting on the edge of his seat, in suspense created by his little secret that's more bitter than sweet,

ready to bolt at a second's notice, and shoot himself to another universe altogether. 

The universe where he can spout excuses and lies later, and the trying isn't so hard, and he runs to get to nowhere all the faster. 

He needs to be there.

Now.

* * *

Stefan nearly jumped out of his seat. David had let this go for long enough, he wasn't about to relent again.

'Will you sit down and talk to me please?' 

But Stefan was already in the bedroom, rushing to get changed.

'Later,' he called as David made his way back.  _When I won't know or care,_ he wanted to add. Decidedly dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, Stef blew through the doorway, past David's halting hand. 

'Where are you going?!'

'Out... for a run.' Stef coldly replied.   

David followed him again, to the front room. 'So you're literally running away from this?'

'There's nothing to run away from. I'm just going out for a bit.' Honestly, Stefan had every intention of coming back. He didn't mind the high possibility of dying, but he _did_ mind that happening in the streets. He struggled with a shoelace, so David took the opportunity to try getting something out of him. 

'Will you stop?' Stefan looked up. 'We haven't talked in months--'

'--Yes we have,' Stef cut in. 'It's fine.'

The normally calm Spaniard was beginning to lose patience with this back-and-forth avoidance. The last of any remotely pleasant tone drained from his voice. 

'No we haven't! We've fought!'

Stefan started to panic. He couldn't handle another fight, which this was inevitably turning into. He tucked the trouble-making lace into his shoe and stood up. 'David, let it go.'

'No!--'

'--We're fine! Just let it go!' Stefan snapped. 

David snapped right back. 'How long have we been together and we've never truly had a fight?! Then, randomly, you fly off the handle at me for some unknown reason and since then it's been nothing but bickering! And the little conversation we  _do_  have is sparse and trivial!'

' _Sparse and trivial?!_  Oh that's good, especially coming from the quiet one who can't stay serious!'

'Well I'm serious now, Stefan! I've been here for you, and I keep trying and trying because I'm not ready to give up yet, but I don't know how much longer I can do this.'

'You may as well just give up now, David!' He pushed past David, but just a step from the door, turned back to face him. ' _You're_  sick of trying, _I_  don't care anymore, what's the point?!'

Time came to a complete stand-still. 

 

It's two facts leading to a genuine question, but the meaning was portrayed all wrong with the heated intonation. Stefan watched David's expression fade from anger to sadness as the weight of his words set in. A full 30 seconds of heart-wrenching silence passed, neither of them sure of what to say or do. Stefan couldn't take it anymore. He reached for the doorknob, but with two bounding steps, David's hands were around his arms. Pain shot down Stefan's body as his shoulders forcibly connected with the wall. He struggled to break free from the hands just as big as his own, but the recent lack of rest and nutrition proved his efforts nothing but tiring. 

With his mind still stuck on the words  _I don't care anymore_ , David remained motionless, his hands tightly pressing Stefan's elbows into the hard surface behind him. Stef raised his knee to David's stomach in an attempt to push the stronger man off, but David simply tilted his own leg up and inward, forcing Stefan's foot down and pinning his lower half in place. 

Stefan finally stopped flailing, the entire length of his body flat against the wall. He stared into David's eyes and found the deep hurting and confusion momentarily coming out as pure rage. 

Prompted by Stefan's impossibly wide eyes and harshly heaving chest, David suddenly realised where he was and what he was doing. He immediately released his tensed grip and took a small step back. Adrenaline-fuelled tremors raced through his bones, his own heartbeat deafened him. Still, his mind continued to echo the love of his life's fateful words, becoming louder and more distorted with every repeat.

 _I don't care anymore, what's the point? You're sick of trying, I don't care anymore... sick of trying... what's the point... I don't care anymore... what's the point, anymore... I don't care... don't care... don't care anymore... I don't care anymore . . ._  

David's eyes stung with trembling tears. His own voice, though less than a whisper, abruptly ended the noise in his mind. 

'...I just want to know what's going on with you.'

Stefan's eyes narrowed to slits. He glared down at David, a poisonous edge to his tone and meticulously measured pauses to emphasise his every word. 

'Why,  David?  Why?  So you can see the track  marks?  So you can watch my skin  literally  crawl?  So you can feel  the time-release coating  permanently  lining  my throat?' Unbeknownst to Stefan, his explanation was quickly losing its venomous infusion and spiteful, calculated volume. His own realisation as to what had become of him showed with a newly quiet inflection that wavered between dismay and terror. 'You really want to know? I'm just another junkie now.'

 

Finally admitting it out loud dropped an entirely new type of shock on Stefan. His vision blurred with tears and his knees buckled, leaving him to slowly slide down the wall until he hit the floor. David's mind swirled with disbelief. _Junkie._  The one thing Stefan promised both of them he'd _never_  be. Pot and occasional club drugs taken to bring on a little calmness or make an already exciting night euphoric were one thing, but neither of them ever had the desire for continued intoxication. It was a promise they both found silly... Until now. 

Stefan tightly curled himself up and buried his face in his knees. What could only be described as small waterfalls fell from his eyes. He shook all over with fear and his fingers grabbed at his head, trying desperately to silence his own thoughts. 

'My mind n-never stops... It nev-ver shuts up...' he stuttered out between heavy sobs. 'Everything h-urts, nothing's ever enough... I'm, I'm not enough. I don't want to b-be like this... but I ca-an't stop.' 

David slowly knelt, coming into Stef's minimal field of vision. The little ball of a man lifted his head and, with a new-found rage of his own, responded before David even had a chance to speak. 

'I already know what you're gonna say, so why don't you take your disappointment and fucking leave now! Go ahead David, walk out! Go! Ju-just... lea-...' Stefan started choking on his own breathing and again broke down into the comfort of his knotted limbs. 'Leave, li-like ever-ryone else.' 

David was at a complete loss for words. 

What prompted Stefan's weird promise to 'never become a junkie' was _David's_  promise that he would never stay with one. He couldn't believe Stef remembered that, let alone took it so deeply to heart. It wasn't even _half_ -serious, as part of some stupid made up drinking game at a party years ago. David _never_  expected to end up in a situation like this with Stefan, but now that he had, he felt incredibly guilty, on top of heartbroken. 

David slid forward and sat against the wall. He urgently pulled the bawling man into his arms and nudged Stef's head onto his shoulder. 

'I didn't realise... ' he whispered just above Stefan's ear. 'Baby, I'm so sorry.'

It took all the strength left in him for Stefan to form coherent words. 'Save it, please. Just go.' he pleadingly whimpered, misunderstanding.

Though it wouldn't seem so to anyone else, it was the biggest _'S_ _orry'_ David ever uttered. He was apologising for dismissing months worth of warning signs, leaving if Stefan asked him to when they fought, not noticing just how badly Stef was hurting or how many people had apparently walked away, for reacting so violently moments earlier, and for making that senseless promise in the first place. Perhaps most importantly, David wasn't apologising before walking out, but for the likely hell he was about to put Stefan through.

'I'm staying right here with you.'

Stef mumbled a messy string of _no'_ s and tried to pull away, but David just held tighter. 'Why are you doing this?!' he desperately cried. 

At the given second, David really had no idea exactly what he was getting into. But for some crazy reason, it didn't matter. 'Because I love you,' David stated softly. 'You said it yourself, you don't want to be like this. And I love you.' He barely understood Stefan's muffled response, but caught something about lying. 'No, I do. I  _do_  love you,' David assured. 

He gently pried Stef's arms from the death grip around himself. Stefan balled his fists around David's shirt and openly wept into his chest, no longer denying the full-blown panic attack or the man sitting with him through it all. 

 

So this was it. This was why their relationship had seemingly taken a nose dive, this was why the already introverted Swede had suddenly become closed off to most everything. David finally allowed his own tears to fall. He had no idea what he was going to do, or what he'd just signed up for. He questioned his sanity for a moment, but decided instead he should be questioning his strength. Leaving Stefan wasn't something he'd planned on doing, and with everything out in the open now, he didn't even consider it an option. 

With Stefan falling to pieces in his lap and their future unclear, there was only _one_  thing David was sure of:

He'd have to be strong enough for the both of them now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This note can totally be skipped, btw. 
> 
> As far as writing is concerned, the second half of this chapter is by far the hardest thing I've ever done and that's why I decided to introduce third person past tense. The weird third/first person present tense was just _too_ disjointed, and first person past tense was downright impossible to write in.  
>  Hotel Persona's _Addicted_ is one of my favourite songs. This fic originally started as an outlandish idea as to what happened that inspired the writing of that song, and I'm kind of just imagining as I go along. Even I didn't know my own brain was this dark.  
>  And finally, many apologies to my co-editor/proof-reader, C for making her cry. I probably could have given you a spoiler alert for this one, gurl. *Spanish arms hug*


	5. Day of Truth (2/2)

At some point mid-afternoon, I was jolted from the sleep I didn't completely realise I'd fallen into. We were still slumped against the wall, Stefan and I.

 

It was the worst panic attack I ever remember him having. An hour of crying to the point of dry-heaving with the occasional sentence choked out. I tried to figure out what he was saying-- something about _'...silence and everything hurts',_  and  _'nothing's okay',_ _\--_ but most of it was jumbled between desperate gasps for air. The little bit I did understand just confused me even more.

Not only had our banter turned to bickering in the past months, but our conversations had almost entirely stopped. Ever since the previous summer, Stefan's behaviour at home was steadily becoming very... un-Stefan-like. I was so used to him walking through the door and taking off the public/professional front as if it was sewn into his coat. He wouldn't necessarily act  _different_ , but in the comfort of our own home, he didn't have to worry about what he said or did. He'd unleash the abundant humour, and talk without first making sure his hands were tucked under his leg. Though since about July, Stefan's jokes were increasingly fewer and farther between and, even though he still listened, our personal conversations were one-sided. Because of this, I was left with absolutely no clue what had happened or what he was going through, leaving me with no idea of what to say.

So I sat there, for an hour. I sat there, and I held him, and I traced circles up and down his back while he cried everything out, until finally, it was over. Stef hadn't really  _calmed down_ , but rather his body couldn't do it anymore. Just as suddenly as he'd attached his hands to my shirt in the first place, his fists went slack and soon his breathing slowed to something of a normal pace. Even in his sleep, a few stray tears continued to escape. I don't think a torrential downpour could have soaked us anymore thoroughly. I found a dry spot along the bottom of my shirt and wiped Stefan's face the best I could. I lifted his head with the intention of at least making it to the couch, but he fussed a bit too much for my liking and I'd already accepted the notion that (with any luck) we'd probably be in this position for hours. Stefan lightly tossed and turned for a moment then finally settled, awkwardly sprawled across my stomach. Having not actually slept since Stef's arrival home the night before, I tucked my arm safely over him and stopped fighting my eyelids' strong will to close.  

 

Now wide-awake and unsure why, I looked around. The apartment was silent and moderately dark thanks to the thick grey clouds that hadn't left the city for days. Stef hadn't moved as much as a finger, and it looked like he wasn't going to any time soon. Then, I heard it again. A soft knock, but this time followed by a voice. 

'Guys, it's Bill.' ... _Mierda._

I'd completely forgotten. The original reason Bill called that morning was to see if he could pick up the EQ board, so I told him to come over around 3.

As I stretched to open the door, I fleetingly contemplated how long it had been since Stef got at least a solid six hours of rest in him if he was able to sleep so soundly, flopped across the waistband of my jeans and half on the floor. My fingers barely reached around the doorknob, but thankfully, I got just enough of a grip and it turned. When the door only opened a few inches, Bill's eyes almost automatically drew downward, and his jaw dropped when he found us on the floor. 

 _'What the hell?'_  he mouthed as he stepped in. 

I tried again to lift Stefan's head. This time, he didn't move. Bill kept his arms steady while I scooped my hand under his shoulders. Bill looked to the hallway, then back to me. 

 _'Bed?'_  he inaudibly mouthed again. 

I shook my head and nodded towards the sofa. Given Stefan's decreased weight, I knew I could carry him effortlessly. However, his unaltered height posed an issue in manoeuvring the narrow walls and tight doorway. 

Bill lifted Stefan's legs so I could get some decent leverage under his torso. _My_  legs weren't so happy about the sudden hoist upwards, but just a few steps and Stef was safe and comfortable on the cushioned couch. Bill gently pulled his shoes and coat off whilst I got his pillow from the bedroom. Back into his favourite blanket he was wrapped, remaining out like a light through all of it. I took a second to mentally thank _every_  heavenly figure I could think of and led Bill out to the fire escape. 

I pulled the window almost completely shut. Bill sat against the right railing, I sat against the left. From there, I could see directly through the kitchen, to the top of Stefan's head at the end of the couch. 

'Thank you,' I whispered to Bill as I lit a cigarette.

He followed suit and kindly nodded. 'No problem. Uh, small problem though...' He pointed inside. 'What's going on?'

My stomach churned as I mulled over what happened earlier that day. Bill was really concerned on the phone, obviously he knew something was wrong. But do I tell one of our best friends about the toxic habit that Stefan hid from _everyone?_  And if so,  ** _how_** _?!_

My mouth decided it was ahead of my brain and seemed to start talking on its own. 'After I hung up this morning... I found a yellow tablet in the pocket of his jeans. It had _XCL 1300_  imprinted on it. I've never seen that before, I have no idea what it is.'

Bill nervously rubbed his temple and looked down. '...It's a painkiller prescribed to people with an extremely high tolerance or allergy to the more common post-surgery pain medications. I don't actually know what's in it, but it doesn't start working until there's a certain amount built up in your system so, to avoid major side effects, it's only available in time-release tablets.'

No... Please, no. 

'That's what they gave my brother when he had his appendix out,' Bill continued. 'But his dose was half that, and he still said the side effects were pretty intense.'

I took a deep breath and silently prayed that Bill wasn't about to confirm my current thought. 'What were his side effects?' 

The way Bill looked at me, I could tell he was apologising for what he was about to say. 'He told me he'd just... zone out sometimes, but it was more like somebody had put him in slow-motion. He knew what was going on around him, but his perception of everything was fuzzy and muddled. He also said he'd come back and not entirely remember what happened, or even spacing out in the first place.'

Oh god, no. 

You know, it's funny. All I wanted was an answer. All I wanted was to know why the man I loved so much was steadily disappearing. And then he told me, and I didn't want to believe it. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. It wasn't drugs. 

But as Bill's explanation set in, it answered quite a bit.

Because Stefan and I were starting a side project, we were spending a lot more time together during this tour than usual. Having just gone nearly three weeks without seeing each other was the longest we'd been apart since the tour was announced, yet oftentimes, Stefan would struggle to remember when he saw me last, even if it was the day before. Another struggle in the past few months really baffled me at first: Every now and then, Stef would suddenly get frustrated when I spoke, insisting that he couldn't understand me. He'd ask me to repeat whatever I said word-by-word and watch my mouth as I did. I wrote it off, assumed my mellowed accent was getting thick again or maybe I was slipping into Spanish mid-sentence from speaking it so much more frequently than I had in years.

The bewildered stares, the mood swings seemingly onset by confusion, the lack of conversation...  _Everything._  Unfortunately, it was starting to make sense now. Though, there were still a few big pieces missing...

Like the track marks. That suggests heroin, right? It's difficult, but feasible to get an uncommon prescription and (with the proper documentation) travel the world with it. But heroin?! Airport security, border checks, the high possibility of human error with unpacking and repacking the same things in the same bags day after day... Where was he getting it, how frequently was he using, how the hell was he going from country to country without being stopped, or even _noticed?_  I definitely wasn't going to ask Bill about it. I got the strange feeling _he didn't know either._

That's another question born from an answer: How could Stefan have fallen into such a strong addiction without anyone noticing? Bill's a man a few words but if something's going on and nobody's talking, he's the one who'll drop a hint to the people who need to know. Surely he would have told me, or at least Alex, if he thought Stefan was in this bad of shape. Then again, Bill's also a man of a few feet. If Stef wanted a bit of personal space, Bill would be the first one to pick up on that and make himself scarce. It's Brian who would coming running to me immediately if he thought something was really wrong with Stef. Obviously he hadn't.

Above all, I was still shocked that Stefan was in so deep. As far as intoxicants go, I sometimes thought he was invincible. Our relationship was conceived from a friendship that started with endless clubbing, partying, and countless weekends spent ingesting alcohol and a variety of illegal substances. Despite this, Stef always knew when it was time to stop and had  _no_  trouble doing so. In addition, there were certain things he'd promised himself he would never touch. Heroin was one of them.

Heroin also had one exception to his rule.

While I attempted to process everything, the realisation twisted my stomach into knots and shattered my heart in a way I didn't even think was possible. This was worse than an addiction. The incredibly talented, highly intelligent, wicked funny, exquisitely beautiful, creative, thoughtful, affectionate man, asleep on the sofa 20 feet away, had given up on life itself. 

The thought of waking up one day and finding out I'd never hear Stefan sing again or feel his hand wrap around mine was something my mind intentionally avoided. Being confronted with the thought that it's what he  _wanted_  completely crushed me.

He'd been getting progressively worse since mid-summer, while he was still in the studio. There had to be some kind of correlation. 

I debated if I really wanted to know anymore and anxiously sighed as I decided in favour. Bill looked up from whatever had caught his attention 14 floors below. 'Did something happen while you guys were recording?' 

His eyes widened with genuine surprise. '...Stef didn't say anything?' I shook my head. 'They had a massive argument. It started with him and Steve, then Brian got involved... I have no idea what it was about, but Alex said when she tried to break it up, Stef even snapped on  _her._ '

What?! Stefan didn't _start_  fights, he _resolved_  them! AND he  _never_  raised his voice to Alex, ever. I literally could not believe it. Alex: The same woman he used to affectionately refer to as Momager (before it caught on as a term in the States) and often joked that she was the only woman he could ever fall in love with. From day one, they got on fantastically, and Stef always had an exceptionally high respect for her. The entire situation was ridiculously out of character, I questioned if he even knew what he was doing. 

'Alex isn't the only one he's snapped on,' Bill hinted.

My immediate thought was Stef's guitar and bass tech. 'Not Gerald...'

He cared for those guitars as though they were his children and Stefan understood exactly what the job entailed, leaving him with a great appreciation for all instrument technicians. 

Bill looked to the ground again. 'No, not Gerald. I, uh,' he sighed, struggling to find the right way to say it. 'You. Weeks ago, in Brussels,' Bill turned up to me with a sad smile in irony. 'I never knew Stef was capable of that kind of volume. I wasn't eavesdropping, but when your room's right next door...'

Just when I thought things couldn't be any worse. 

'David.' Bill's face was completely serious. 'What's going on?'

I stared inside and swallowed the lump rising in my throat. The words refused to form and ended up being forced out as whispers. 'It's been months of this. He's constantly so anxious or frustrated that the most minuscule thing sends him into either a panic attack or a screaming fit, and he won't tell me anything... It's not him. It's not my Stef. It's whatever he's been on since... since last summer I guess, but he only just admitted it this morning. He can't break this by himself...'

'So, what are you going to do?'

'Addict-proof this flat,' I accidentally thought out loud. 'Check every last corner and crevice. He was here for a week by himself a couple of months ago, there's most likely a stash somewhere. Put a lock on the front door, just take the knobs off the rest. Make as much soup as I can. He hasn't eaten in at least two days, maybe longer...'

Bill silently stared at me for a moment.

Maybe it's overkill, but it's not exactly like I'd done this with Stefan before and I was _not_  going to do it a second time. Bill flicked his burnt-out cigarette over the railing and shifted towards the window.

'Well, I'll assume you don't exactly have a padlock and hasp just laying around...?'

He opened the window and quietly slid back inside.

 

Bill graciously offered to take a list and head to the hardware shop and supermarket. While he was out, I searched for every hiding spot I could think of. Thankfully, Stefan didn't make it that difficult, using one of the very first tricks I taught him. When Bill returned, we started on the doors and took care of any other details we thought of along the way. 

We worked as quickly and as quietly as possible. From start to finish, the entire process only took two hours and Stefan slept right through it, shifting just once to pull the covers off his feet. Before he left, Bill granted one last favour and helped me get Stef from the sofa and into bed. 

I stood in the corridor, thanked Bill a thousand times, offered him just about all but my first-born in return for the help. He simply gave me a hug, wished me luck, and told me to call him if we needed _anything_.

Brian always said if angels existed, Bill was one of them. After that day, there was no doubt in my mind. 

 

When I came back in, stringing the padlock key on my necklace sent me into the first of what was to be numerous breakdowns. 

In a couple of hours, I'd managed to lock Stefan into this little box of a flat while simultaneously taking away any and all privacy. I felt like a kidnapper or an overbearing, controlling spouse... Just, a vicious person. However, the better part of my mind reassured me that this was all for his own good. I didn't want to attach myself to Stef's hip, but I couldn't leave him the ability to just up and disappear in the middle of the night, or lock himself in the bedroom and indulge in the hypothetical stash I missed. These drastic measures were only for a few days, just until the worst of it had passed. I didn't care if he senselessly rambled and yelled at me, I didn't care if he got angry to the point of getting physical. The Stefan I'd been with for over eleven years was still in there somewhere. If he truly didn't care about our relationship anymore and wanted me to leave, then I _would_... If and/or when it's Stefan, not his addiction, telling me to go.

 

Once I'd pulled myself together, I decided to lay down for awhile. I found Stef curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, trembling, with his face hidden beneath his pillow. It took me a minute to realise, I didn't know it was possible: He was having a panic attack in his sleep. I tucked his pillow under his head and curled myself around him, holding him tight. He gently grasped upwards along my shirt. I took his hand and held it against my chest, something I started doing when we moved in together and I first discovered he even had panic attacks. I rubbed soft little patterns along his spine that calmed him enough to stop the quivering. By instinct, I whispered under my breath _'You'll be okay,'_  and  _'I love you,'_  as I fell into a disquieted sleep.

 

 


	6. Magulladura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning?/Possible trigger: There are mentions of a razor and details of mild injuries in this chapter, though it's not all that graphic. But, just in case.

'Stef?'

He tries to murmur a response, 

it's released as a tiny groan, at most. 

His knees throb with a dull ache, the muscles in his arms uncomfortably tug at his bones. Half his body is too hot, the other half is too cold. The brush of his stubble against fabric isn't just rough, it  _hurts_. 

Clearing his throat proves to be impossible. His voice is a scratchy whisper. 

'How long,' is all he gets out before his stomach jumps through his chest. The metallic scrape of the bin being pulled closer scares him. 

There's nothing to come up, but his body is determined to expel something. He gags on saliva and air. 

His torso is lifted and supported in the cold void just past the edge of the bed.

Someone rubs his side. The soft touch encourages his insides to retreat to their proper position. One final, forceful cough and the worst is over. For now, anyway.

He's unsuccessful in willing his eyes open, his arm refuses to lift. His mind is very much awake, despite his body's lack of consciousness.

'How long have I been asleep?' he rasps.

'32 hours,' a soft voice answers, a soft voice he didn't expect to hear.

He can tell by the bunching of the sheets, he wasn't sleeping alone.

'How long have you been asleep?' 

'Most of last night. Though I felt like laying around for awhile.' 

He can't understand. David doesn't sound angry, or irritated, or disgusted. He realises maybe David was serious about helping him stop. 

His eyelids  _finally_  lift. David watches for a reaction. 

His voice sounds without the signal first being fired from his brain. 'Where,' he squeaks. 

David softly kisses his cheek and rubs across the small of his back.

'You're in London, at home. We were by the front door when you fell asleep, I put you in bed. Brian did call and check in, he's safe in New York. Um... I'm sorry,' David sighs, 'Your stash is gone.' 

Somewhere, in a distant corner of his mind, he's on the verge of bubbling into a panicked rage. His body, however, is too weak to support itself, let alone a fruitless wild goose chase around the apartment in search of the very thing that got him into this mess. 

He knows his throat can't handle anymore talking right now. He makes a mental note, that he may or may not remember, to thank David later.

He leans forward with the intention of standing, limply falls into David's arms, looped around him for physical support. 

David holds their hips together, managing to _follow and carry_  him at the same time. 

They make it to the toilet. 

He stares at the bathtub. A shower is out of the question in his current state. He imagines how relaxing a bath would be, but trying to get up and out would only re-ignite the ache freshly steamed out of his body. 

Sensing his indecision, David sits him on the sink counter and plugs the tub drain.

His chest tightens with anxiety, the sound of water running from the tap makes it worse. Deep inside, dread swells and threatens to turn his intestines upside-down again. 

 

David's seen him naked thousands of times, 

vulnerable, maybe a hundred,

physically and emotionally drained from the natural stress of touring, around fifty.

David's never seen him pathetically strung out, or this mentally _lost_ , or feeling so bruised and battered inside that it actually starts to show on his skin. 

David has never seen him stripped to the core, exposed and helpless,

the near-deadly combination of _everything_.

Neither has he.

 

David helps him from the counter to the edge of the tub. His shirt is lifted, but he panics, jerks it back down and holds around his waist. David runs a finger under his chin and tilts his head up. His eyes remain downcast. 

He can't bring himself to look up. He expects David will give in and leave with a few more seconds of hesitance and refusal,

but it doesn't happen. 

Instead, David gently kisses him with a tenderness that evokes a fresh wave of guilt.

'It's okay if you don't want to let me in.' David whispers. 'I'm not trying to hurt you any more, I'm just trying to help. Let me?'

He lets his arms go slack. Again, his shirt is lifted,

he doesn't resist this time. 

David tries to make the process as painless as possible, stretching the t-shirt collar so it doesn't pull against his skin. 

He's nudged forward and slightly up. David eases his pants to mid-thigh and sets him back down. He braces for a cold shock, but his skin is met with fuzzy warmth. His pants pool around his ankles, his feet are carefully extracted and placed on the other side of the tub's edge into pain-melting warm water. David turns off the tap and holds him steady as he slides down into the bath.

He sits, holding his legs against his stomach, staring at the winding, Victorian-style brush pattern down the front of David's shirt. 

 

He remembers the day they bought it, vividly.

David trying on all three colours,

both of them being amused by the fact that the bright lipstick red somehow managed to make the consistently tan Spaniard look pale,

and David playfully telling him to fuck off at the mention of blue shirts taking over their closet. 

He smiles at the memory of David stepping out of the changing room in the olive green. 

It's not vibrant shade, and it's just a t-shirt, but David made it look so _good_. 

Two years later, it's starting to tear at the seams,

much like the shirt it was bought to replace. 

It's an endless cycle, one of David's little quirks,

one that always made him smile.

 

Suddenly, a razor pops into his view. He musters the courage to look up.

David's happy sparkling eyes are dimmed with sadness.

Sadness he's responsible for. 

David's mouth starts moving, rapidly, but the words are long, the syllables stretched out. It sounds like a strange combination of three languages, two of which David doesn't speak, but he understands enough of all three of them to be sure this _isn't_   an actual language.

He hears the soft, plentiful vowels and inflection of a native French-speaker,

he hears the hard, emphasised consonants and occasional similarities to English words that German portrays,

and somehow, on top of it all, he still picks up on David's accent, adding the beauty of Spanish to the mix. 

He doesn't know why David keeps doing this, it's not an attempt at Swedish, he's decided. Supposing David mispronounced certain sounds and factoring in the hard-to-hide Spanish accent, surely he'd still be able to understand at least a few words.

So he does what he's been doing since this little charade started, clasping his hands around David's face, staring at David's mouth with an undying determination.

'Baby, close your eyes.' David mumbles slowly with a slight smile, holding up a bar of soap. He complies.

A warm, wet cloth starts gliding across his forehead in soft circles.

His mind momentarily questions how one can put so much effort into speaking clearly and still mumble. 

 

The bottom of the cloth catches along his unshaven jawline. The pain is minor, nothing he can't handle, 

until David strokes down his cheek.

He releases a low yelp, half in surprise, half in pain.

'Shh, it's okay.' David assures. 'I'll be done in a minute, just try to stay still, alright?' 

He starts to nod, but his stomach jumps again. This time, it's more violent. 

There's a quick brush above his eyebrows and another metallic scrape. It doesn't scare him this time.

 

He feels like he's being beaten in the stomach with a hammer, his chest convulses with a disturbing amount of force. 

David's hand on the back of his neck seems to be the only thing that keeps him from surrendering to some unknown demonic realm.

Knives push through his ribs, axes swing away just below his esophagus. 

'You're okay, you're okay. It's almost over,' cuts through the internal chaos.

He tries desperately to breathe, but his lungs work against him.

His head throbs with every heave,

his throat feels burned, blistered, and raw,

spitting out a vital organ becomes a legitimate fear. 

For a second, he tastes blood. Even with his eyes closed, the room starts spinning, frightening chills rush through his body. 

And just as quickly as it all started, it's over again.

 

Afraid to open his eyes, he reaches out a shaky hand. David immediately takes hold of it. 

He's never been so relieved in his life.

 

'You're okay. I'm sorry, baby. I know it hurts, but you're okay.' Despite the calming words, David's voice is pure worry.

He inhales deeply, taking back control of his lungs. 'I'll stay still,' he exhales. 

David lightly squeezes his hand and goes back to carefully washing his face. 

 

Every pass of the razor leaves a mild burning sensation behind. David truly does focus on trying not to hurt him, going  _with_  the grain rather than against, and keeping one hand locked around his.

He grows more self-conscious and just plain fearful when the soapy cloth drops below his neckline. His right arm is still pinning his legs over his abdomen, like a piece of paper folded over itself, in some unrealistic attempt to hide. 

David is considerate of the numerous minor blemishes that are painful to the touch. 

He can only imagine what a pitiful sight he is at the moment. The fluorescent lights of their bathroom accentuate the greenish-grey undertone of his complexion and puffy lines of sickly violet shadowed beneath his eyes.

Tiny pink rows of shredded skin from scratching too hard, lay uncovered and flushed from the heat of the water. 

Yellow marks line the backs of his upper arms in groups of four, from hugging himself tight through restless sleep the nights David couldn't be there. 

He knows David sees every dry patch and scrape,

kind fingers lather over them quickly, or around them entirely. 

 

In the unforgiving light, the physical evidence of his secrets and lies are practically on show for the man who trusted him so much. With every small shift of their entwined hands, he's reminded of the countless ways he betrayed that trust, down to the very last detail. 

His throat tightens as tears swell behind his closed eyelids. It hits too hard, hurts too much: 

Soon, he'll just be a band-mate to David.

 

He  _did_  have one good thing left, he did have one person that curbed his insecurities, one person that tried to support him,  _tried_  to make him happy. Only now, unable to perform basic tasks for himself, does he realise what he inadvertently threw away. 

The last several months repeat in his mind like a VHS tape that's been played too many times. 

 

They never fought.

He relentless yelled at whoever didn't expect the world from him,

David silently listened and took it all.

They never had a disagreement.

He didn't know how to handle the stressful recording sessions or the come-downs nastier than the habit itself,

David pointed out an exaggerated number of his strengths and good qualities to console him.  

They didn't grow apart.

He lost sight of a light in his life,

David stayed by his side anyway.

 

'This isn't me.' he whimpers, on the cusp of another panic attack. 

David replies calmly, 'I know, Stef.'

'No, you don't!' he fires back, irrationally cross. 'You  _don'_ _t_  know, David!  _I_  don't even know who or what I am anymore, so how could you?!' He coughs a few times, stunned by the force of his own words. 

David seems unfazed by the harsh retaliation. 'You're right. Neither one of us knows who you are, you have to rediscover that. But I  _do_  know that you're intelligent, and caring, and passionate... and drained. I know you've been running on empty since the beginning of this tour. I know you're not a junkie.'

Little sobs wrack his body. He's convinced he doesn't deserve such kind treatment,

especially from the person he's hurt the most.

'I'm sorry,' he quietly cries. 'I'm just broken...' 

'Baby, that's alright.  _Fix yourself_. And if you want, if you'll let me, I'll stay right here and help you.' 

He presses his already interlocked hand to David's chest. David kisses it and smiles. 

 

They continue in serene silence until David has reached every inch he allows. He's helped up to the edge of the tub again and wrapped in a warm towel. David disappears, only for a moment, and comes back with pants and a shirt. Their pre-bath process replays in reverse, and within another minute, he's laid in bed. 

David tucks an extra pillow just behind the one already under his head. 

'Do you want anything? Tea... maybe something to eat...?' 

He doesn't trust his stomach at all right now, mouths a shaky,  _'No.'_

David smiles weakly and caresses down his face.

The rampant anxiety sets in, racing thoughts of everything and nothing spin through his mind. He's afraid to be left alone in the silence of this darkened room, left alone with internalised screams and entities born from shadows. 

'Can... If I--' No.

No, he has no right to want this, he has no right to ask, no right to ask for anything more than what David has already done for him.

But David's still here, a step closer to him now, with a hand over his, looking at him expectantly.

 

'It's okay, baby. What is it?' David encourages softly. 'I'll get you anything you want.' 

He prepares for a stern  _'no'_ ,  or for David to laugh and call him crazy or silently turn and walk out. 

His speech is riddled with uncertainty. '...W-would you let me hold you for awhile... just until I fall asleep?' 

David's eyebrows flicker up for the length of a blink, apparently that's not what David expected to hear.

'Of course,' 

whispered, as if the request is an honour to fulfil.

Not what he expected to hear, either. 

 

He watches, dumbfounded, as David walks around the foot of the bed and slips under the covers next to him. He cautiously slides his arm over the waist his held tight so many times before.

It feels foreign, like he's balancing on a line, trying with all his might not to fall over and cross it. The awkward bit of space between them makes them seem like twelve-year-olds in their first slow dance. However, the fact that David is laying next to him is comforting enough to shoo his worries away for awhile. 

Suddenly, David relaxes back against his body and locks their fingers together. 

A sense of peace washes over him that calms his buzzing nerves and stops the panic attack looming in his chest. 

The stress, the headaches, the nausea will still be there tomorrow. But for now,

he has David in his arms.

 

* * *

 

A long time ago, my baby sister won a poetry contest. Her piece,  _Magulladura,_  was a bit shocking, (in particular, the last four lines) especially coming from a young teen. She told me she didn't consciously decide to write it, everything she was feeling wrote its way out. I always understood that, and I understood her poem, but I never  _felt it_  like she did, until now. 

 _' ... Me gustaría poder sanar sus magulla_  
_Me gustaría poder arreglar tu piel lesionada_  
_Me gustaría poder borrar lo que se le dijo_  
_Me gustaría poder verle sonreír de nuevo ... '_

I would have done  _anything_  to see Stef honestly smile again. 

 


	7. Nightmare

Cold sheets, empty space beside him. 

He sits up and rubs his eyes, vaguely aware of daylight on the other side of the wall. He climbs out of bed with the steadiness of a newborn colt and heads for the closet,

still on auto-pilot from fatigue. 

On the top shelf, tucked away in the back, he digs through the pockets of a pair of trousers he hasn't worn in years. 

Nothing.

He shrugs. How long has he been home? He's probably gone through everything hidden in these jeans by now. 

He turns and continues to the toilet cabinet.

Two toothbrushes, toothpaste, assorted shaving products and colognes,

the few bottles of generic cold medicines are gone, including the teal one that didn't actually contain Sinex _._  

He starts to panic. Did he really go through that much already?! No, impossible. And why is everything else gone? 

There's still one place left to look. 

A strange gleam catches his attention as he steps through the door. He stares down at the shiny bathroom tiles

_through the hole where the doorknob should be._

His heart rate doubles, he notices the bedroom door is missing its knob too. He races to the other end of the hall,

the studio door is without a handle as well. 

He goes in anyway, tears the top desk drawer from its slot. 

As he just predicted, the envelope taped to the back of the desk inside, has disappeared. 

Deep panic sets in.

He can't think straight like this, but he needs to figure out what to do. 

He skids into the front room, practically lunging for the liquor cabinet. A strong coffee, a few shots, what's the difference? He fusses with the lock for a moment before noticing it's been changed. 

The scuff of the kitchen window opening, then closing, goes unnoticed. 

He steps to the shelf next to the front door, in search of his phone, when yet another strange glimmer derails his focus:

There's a lock on the front door.

 

'Stef...' 

That familiar soft voice saying his name,

the previous night floods back to him in an instant. He turns and finds David leaning on the back of the sofa, hands kneading nervously, gaze pointed down. 

'You! You did this?! David, have you lost your mind?! You can't do this, you can't just lock me in like your captive!' 

David cowers back further against the couch with every word. He doesn't want to scare David like this, he doesn't want to yell,

but he can't control it. 

'I know you hid them! Where?! Where are the pills?!' 

Silence.

'No... No! Don't tell me you flushed them! Don't tell me!--'

A shaky sigh. Confirmation. 

'I'm sorry... I didn't know what else to do,' David whispers, tearing up.

'So you flush my pills and lock me in?! You don't understand! I need those!  _I need them, David.'_

He continues his irrational screaming rant, inching closer and closer until he's nearly standing on top of David. David stays silent, letting him scream everything out. He says things that he shouldn't say, and he doesn't mean. His nerves are shot from anxiety and anger. For a moment, he loses control of himself. His hands are on David, gripping far too tight. He tries to back off, or at least stop yelling, but he  _can't._

Tears begin to blur his vision. This is the scariest thing he's ever gone through, like an out-of-body experience, but he's stuck, powerless, still inside his physical being. 

Behind the words and struggling arms, he fears the worst. 

' ... You don't understand, David! I hate you for this, I  _hate_  you! Do you understand _that?_  Shit. How am I supposed to get through today?! I still have to coordinate the club dates and find flights! Shit! I already lost two days! How do you expect me to get everything done like this?! I can't,  _I can't!_  Damn it, David!'

He chokes on tears and indistinct cries and the rapidly thumping heart that's risen to his throat. 

'If you hate me,' David says quietly. 'Why are you hugging me so close?' 

He isn't, but the surprise is enough to properly realign his mind and body, and he realises

he is. 

He and David are woven around each other, with his face hidden in the curve of David's neck. 

He sniffles and pulls away, 

or tries to, at least. 

David doesn't let go. 

The dam breaks, panic takes over. He sobs into David's shoulder.

'I'm s-sorry, I don't-- David, I should be thank-ng--' A flag in the back of his mind goes up. 'I a- _am_  thanking you. I'm sorry. David, I'm sorry.'

'Baby, hey...'

He continues to apologise over and over. This certainly isn't the nastiest he's ever been to David, but he knows it's unfair and the guilt is worse each time. 

' _Hey,_  Stef, it's okay. Breathe, baby. Breathe.' 

'I can't!' he cries. 'I need my phone, where's my phone?'

David still won't let go completely, despite his insistent shifting. 'It's on your nightstand, but, um, I reset it...' 

He pries himself from David's grasp.

'What the fuck, David?! How dare you! Where's the key to that padlock?! I'm leaving--' 

'--No! Please wait,' David pleads. 'Please  _please..._ Just hear me out.  _PLEASE,_  either way I'll unlock it and let you leave, but will you please let me explain first?'

He stares at David, fists clenched, breathing hard. The outline of a key tucked inside David's shirt catches his attention. He considers ripping David's necklace off and storming out.

Desperation gets the best of him,

he decides the idea is a good one.

 

He curls a shaking hand around the chain and pulls hard enough to snap the clasp. In the moment it takes to get dressed, his surroundings become dull, distant thrums, set to fuzzy pictures.

He slips his shoes on and slides the key into the lock.

David is reduced to a crying, trembling heap on the floor, propped up by the sofa.

He tucks the key in his coat pocket, drops the padlock on the entryway shelf,

takes one last heart-crushing look at his shattered ex-boyfriend.

'Please don't go...' David protests. 'Please, Stefan!'

He opens the door,

and walks out. 

 

He easily tramples down two flights of steps before stopping dead in his tracks. An unfailingly habitual part of his brain reminds him that he forgot something. 

Coat, jeans, shoes,

wallet, keys, phone.

No, he has everything he needs immediately. 

Completely exhausted already, he sits on a bottom step. 

The white stairwell is unnaturally bright in the prime morning sun. It overloads his senses.

In his tired, disoriented state, the outside world seems so much bigger, and brighter, and louder. 

He longs for the safety of home. 

He's sweating, cold, scared,

empty.

The image of David shivering with sobs as he walked out the door gives him a decent slap in the face.

This is literally a living nightmare, he's become his own worst fear. 

Together or not, he  _loves_  David,

and he left the love of his life alone on the floor, without a chance to speak,

a feeling he never wanted to inflict on anyone else. 

 _NO,_  his mind suddenly shouts.

Right, he has a reason for leaving. He's not an animal to be locked in a cage, not a follower hanging on his dictator's every command, not one to relinquish control simply  _because._

Except, he doesn't know. All he had was a phone number that he tried  _not_  to remember. Without it, he has no idea where to go, or who to look for. 

The clouds shift, the sunlight becomes blindingly bright. 

His own harsh breathing deafens him.

He remembers a time when he wasn't overwhelmed by every single little thing, a time when he didn't have some type of anxiety attack spurred on by harmless gestures, 

when he didn't take everything out on David. 

He remembers his life before the pills took over. 

He swallows hard, feels for the railing,

shuffles up two flights of stairs. 

 

He stands in front of the door with a blank mind. Does he knock? Does he try the handle? Does he start talking and hope he's eventually let back in? 

It is technically still his flat, too, so he tries the doorknob. 

It opens. 

He silently steps in and closes the door. David's still on the ground, oblivious to his presence just yet. 

He picks up the padlock, stares at the shiny new latch on the door frame. The weight in his hand doesn't let him forget what he's holding. The idea of it still makes him feel like a rabid animal. 

He takes a deep breath.  _This is help,_ he reminds himself.

He threads the loop and clicks the lock closed. 

David quickly stands, slightly startled. 

He pulls the key from his pocket and delicately places it in David's hand. 

'I'd like to hear your reasoning,' he whispers apologetically. 

David speaks quickly, eager to clarify the drastic actions.

'It's not my intent to keep you locked in, if you want to go out, we'll go out. And I'll give you as much privacy as I can her. Talk to me. Tell me to go away if you want space, tell me to hold you if you want to be held. Tell me what's stressing you out and what's keeping you up at night and why you can't eat. I can't pr- guarantee I'll always know what to do or say, but I'll  _listen_  and I'll stay right here with you.'

David takes a few seconds to calm down before continuing. 'We both know this shaky skeletal figure isn't who you are. Stefan,  _I love you._ I  _want_  you to be healthy again,  _I want you to be happy.'_

He takes another deep breath.  _This is the help you need,_  he reminds himself again. 

'If the offer's still valid...' he mentions unsurely.

David looks strangely hopeful. 'It is.'

Oh. 

He questions what the forthcoming days will hold. 

This won't be easy, by any stretch of the imagination, for either one of them. He'll probably overreact at nothing and end up taking it out on David, as usual anymore. And David will probably get frustrated sometimes, or possibly even give up on him completely at some point. He's absolutely petrified to open up, or admit to David anything about these last 8 or so hellish months. 

This could be his only chance to finally kick his malicious secret and stop living in fear of a stupid little tablet. 

It's bound to get ugly, messy, even painful, but  _this is his chance._

'It's not fair, but I know I'll say terrible things. Probably lash out at you...' he warns. 

'Good. Let it all out. I can handle it.'

'Maybe physically...'

'I can handle that, too.' 

'How long will you stay with me?' 

David doesn't miss a beat. 'As long as it takes.' 

He peels his sights from the floor, unaware of when his eyes drifted down. David is visibly holding back from making physical contact. 

He left without a hug or a kiss, something he  _never_  does when David's home. 

He cautiously steps closer, aching to touch, wanting to feel safe, needing to know everything will be okay. 

So he slides his hand up David's chest, hinting, still too nervous to verbalise what he wants. 

They slowly wind together again. 

'I'm so scared,' he whimpers against David's shoulder. 'What if this is all that's left?' 

'You came back on your own, didn't you? Actions speak louder than words.'

He's not sure how the old saying and his coming back to the flat are related, but David's words are reassuring nonetheless. 

He persuades himself to release David. Among other things, he's desperately craving a cigarette.

He checks his coat pocket and loops a finger around David's pinkie. They continue out onto the fire escape silently. 

 

Halfway through his first cigarette, his decision sinks in completely.

David's promise to listen sinks in, too. All he has to do

is talk. 

 

'There's something I should tell you about...' he starts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not sure if Sinex is a real thing. Local pharmacies don't have anything by that name, but if there is some decongestant called Sinex, I don't own it.


	8. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The middle of this chapter takes place in July 2005.

I shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, half-hoping we'd be out there for awhile.

'Okay. What is it?'

'Do you remember the night back in July... I came home and wouldn't talk to you.' 

The night our healthy communication took a nose-dive for the first time. How could I forget? 

'Yes.'

Stefan bit his lip. 'Um, I... I started an argument with Steve and Brian. We made up an hour later, but it really bothered-- it still bothers me.'

'Why is it getting to you so much, what happened?'

* * *

 About 20 minutes after Brian and Stef arrived, Steve strolled into the studio lounge. 

'Hey,' Stef greeted once he noticed the drummer's arrival.

'Hey Stef.' Steve backed into the doorway and peered down the halls. 'Is Alex in yet?'

Stef nodded. 'She's on the phone. This might help you though.' He pointed to a small stack of papers at the opposite end of the table.

Steve looked over the top sheet and grinned to himself. It was an itemized list of what his drum tech had ordered in preparation for the future tour.

'Yeah... Where'd you get this?'

Stef didn't get a chance to answer before Brian came bursting through the door, his guitar tech, Joe, following close behind.

'Hey sleepy head. About time you graced us with your presence,' Brian teased with a half-hug as he bounced past Steve.

He plopped down on the sofa in the corner and started going over something like make-shift pedal board blueprints with the veteran technician. 

With everyone else in the room focused on their own things, Stef became distracted by the man standing across from him. Steve was completely still, but he possessed a slight sway that very few people would ever be able to pick up on. It was the third time that week Steve had come in with a few drinks working through his system. Just behind Stef sat a newly sober Brian, who had vowed earlier in the year to  _stay_  sober for the sake of his pregnant girlfriend and their first child. 

When Brian announced the news, Stef gave the standard _'congratulations'_  and  _'good luck'_  along with the offer of a shoulder to cry on or a place to go if Brian felt the urge to turn to alcohol or drugs again. Though he hadn't said it out loud (yet), Stef was immensely proud of Brian and highly admired him for taking responsibility and changing his actions to be the best father he could be to his child. According to Brian, sobriety was no longer a goal, it was a necessity. 

In a supportive move of his best friend's efforts, Stef secretly vowed not to drink or even be intoxicated around Brian. He quickly noticed Bill had the same idea, along with Alex, most of the engineers and technicians regularly around the studio... Even David hesitated to drink too much just in case Brian came over. 

So, while Stefan watched the third 'husband' in their musical marriage barely wobble, he became more than a little irritated, and decided to do something about it. 

He stood up, made his way over to Steve, and quietly requested that they find another room in which to talk. 

As they walked down the hall to an empty rehearsal room, Stefan planned to mention Brian's self-required sobriety and politely hint at their positions of influence as his best friends. Steve was still excited about his new cymbal.

They stepped inside and Stef shut the door. 

'So, what's up?' Steve asked, looking bewildered.

Stef sighed. He wasn't exactly sure of a good way to phrase it. 'Look, you know Brian's trying not to drink. Would it be possible for you to maybe... not come in drunk?'

'I'm not drunk.'

It took far too much self control for Stef to hold back a scoff. 

'Steve, you smell like a walking bottle of whiskey.'

'Well you know what Stef,' Steve started, slightly offended. 'Not everybody has the patience to deal with Brian like you do.'

While Stef didn't condone their band mate's means of dealing, he had to admit that Brian had been a bit short tempered with everyone as of late. He knew it was the stress of unplanned impending fatherhood and had no trouble brushing off harsh tones and snide comments, but Brian would often have a full-out go at Steve.

'I'll talk to him, okay? Try to get him to calm it down with the bossiness. Cut him a break though, please? He's under a lot of stress and trying to stay sober for Helena and the baby.' 

'Oh, you and I both know all that'll go out the window as soon as we hit the road again.'

True, touring usually was when Brian started drinking again. But things were different this time, a child and their well-being was involved now.

'Maybe not. It won't be as tempting if the people around him aren't drunk. You heard him, he wants to be a good father--'

Frustrated, and now feeling insulted, Steve went on the defensive. '--What's that supposed to mean? You like alcohol, you're a crap dad?'

'No, I didn't mean--'

But Steve didn't let him finish.

'You don't even know the first thing about fatherhood. And playing _Daddy Stef_  doesn't count. In here fighting yet another battle for Brian... In case you haven't noticed, he's an adult, don't you think it's time he started fending for himself?'

Stef's irritation blossomed into heated aggravation. 'I'm not asking you because Brian wants me to, I'm asking because one of our best friends is trying to better himself. Why not help?!'

 

Back in the lounge, Brian bid his farewell to Joe and looked around. Steve and Stef had disappeared a good ten minutes prior. He was looking forward to spending a few minutes just the three of them hanging out, before Alex got off the phone and sent them in their respective directions for the day. 

Brian moseyed through the empty halls of the studio and soon picked up on the faint echo of Steve's booming voice. He nearly laughed at the unlikely sight of Stef yelling a mere foot away from Steve's face, until he realised the two were  _fighting._

Brian raced down the hall and flung the door open just in time to clearly catch Steve's comeback.

'Yeah, like when you go trottin' off with your Spanish fucking fairy!'

'Excuse me?!' Brian interrupted, getting the attention of both men. 'How dare you!--'

Stef splayed his hand across the air, as if he was trying to subtly soothe the tension from the room.'--Brian, let it go,' he said softly.

Brian was having none of it. 'No Stef.' He turned, directly addressing Steve. 'David has been nothing but good to us! I don't know what the hell's going on, but you leave him out of it!'

Steve simply rolled his eyes. 'Of course. The three who _fuck_  together, stick together.'

'Seriously?!' Stef shouted in disbelief at the slightly inappropriate, immature comment.

'Fuck off!' Brian fired back. 'My sex life is none of your damn business!'

'Apparently it is! The consequence of said life is what started all this!'

 _'CONSEQUENCE?!'_  Stefan interjected. Steve never had the best wording once he and Brian got into it, but in Stef's mind,  _that_  word crossed a line.

 

Finally off the phone with a promoter, Alex went looking for the three boys who were supposed to be waiting in the lounge. She didn't have to go very far before picking up on the three voices screaming over each other. 

'BOYS!' She yelled, making her way to the bickering group from the side entrance to the rehearsal room. 'ALRIGHT, _THAT'S ENOUGH!'_

All three stopped and turned to the small woman. However, Stef had an odd fire in his eyes that she suspected no one had ever seen before.

'I'm not done.' He clarified in a scarily calm tone.

Alex stumbled back a step and her eyes widened at the blatant defiance.

Stef faced Brian and Steve again, finishing with a frighteningly soft voice.

'We each have issues of our own to sort out, but keep in mind that we're a band. We have an album to finish, rehearsals to get through, and a full tour schedule being finalised. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I'd like to get through this with the open working relationship that we haven't had for weeks. Or at least try.'

Stefan stormed out.

All three took a deep breath. Alex dared to speak first.

'Would somebody like to tell me what that was about?'

Steve bowed his head in guilt. 'I, um, I lost my temper, and Stef... Fought back,' he finished with an air of surprise. 'Uh, sorry Molks, I--'

'--Yeah, it's alright.'

Both men looked at Alex, giving a respectful  _'Sorry ma'am'_  at the same time. 

Alex smiled at the gesture, happy to move on. 'Well, Brian, why don't you go wait in the lounge, Bill's on his way and he'll want to go over the new board setup.' 

Brian nodded and headed for the door. 

'Steve, they need you to re-record the track you did last night. There was a problem, half of it didn't record properly.'

Steve nodded as well and left the room. Alex sighed, now to find Stefan. 

 

On the balcony at the back of the studio, Stef stared out at the cityscape through tear-blurred vision. He couldn't believe the things he'd said. Steve was right, he didn't know a damn thing about being a parent. Who was  _he_  to judge the father of a ten year old? Who was he to have said anything in the first place? Brian hadn't seemed to notice when Steve would show up to the studio drunk. Maybe he really  _didn't_ notice, or maybe he didn't care. Stef still couldn't get over how he disrespected three of the most important people to him. Out of them, he dreaded facing Alex the most. Though they were only words, he felt as if he'd spit in her face.

'Hey,' a timid voice called. 'I think you dropped these.'

Stef wiped his face and turned around. A baby-faced twenty-something girl with curly blonde hair held out a forgotten pack of cigarettes. He waved her outside and accepted the little half-crushed box. 

'Thanks. You're shadowing to become a tech, right?' Stef took a cigarette from the pack and lit it.

The girl smiled as her head tilted. 'Yeah. You've noticed?'

Between the strong resemblance to his sister and the fact that she was the only female in the studio crew, of course Stef had noticed her.

'Yes. Oh, I'm Stef, by the way. Sorry.'

'I know.' The girl giggled, then stared at him strangely for a moment. 'Are you okay? I can tell you've been crying.' 

He winced at the thought of letting anyone else know what had just happened. 

'Um, yeah, it's... it's just anxiety.' 

She raised an eyebrow.  _'Just_  anxiety, huh? There's usually a reason behind it...' 

Stef was running out of vague explanations. 'Not always. It randomly spikes sometimes. No big deal.' 

The girl looked around before pulling a tiny plastic bag from her back pocket. 

'Well, I have anxiety problems too.' She handed the four tablets to Stef. 'I haven't had a single attack since.'

He stood there, speechless. The sister look-alike closed his hand around the little bag and started to the door. 

Stef looked down as his hand. First, a fight. Now, questionable pills. And he hadn't even been at the studio for a full hour yet.

Succumbing to a moment of weakness, he dropped a tablet into the opposite palm and swallowed it dry.  

* * *

'Uh, I, um...' Stef curled up against the railing and broke down. 'David, I fucked up. I figured th-they were painkillers, but it di-n't matter, I went back for more anyway. Something _changed_  between the three of us-- some-something disappeared. I drove us apart. But Steve a-and Brian... apparently they can't admit that we're n-not the same.'

I still couldn't understand. Everything seemed fine when I was around them. Stef tucked into himself even tighter so I put an arm around him and reached for the window. 

'Come on, we'll finish this inside.'

Not long after we'd gone out to the fire escape, dark, heavy clouds rolled in, filling the sky. As soon as I shut the window, rain started pouring in sheets. Stefan stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers again and laid on the couch, clinging to the blanket he'd half wrapped around himself. I laid down next to him and cradled his head on my shoulder. 

'David, I'm so cold,' he whispered.

Just from being so close, I could feel he was burning up. The real fun was just beginning.

'Stay here, I'll be right back.'

I went to the bedroom and pulled the duvet right off the bed. During the few seconds I was gone, Stefan had managed to bundle himself into a tight little ball in the corner of the couch. I wrapped myself around him and wrapped the blanket around us both. Stefan restlessly shifted until he was perfectly moulded to my side. 

That was it. He didn't tell me anything else, and I didn't want to force it. We laid in silence, Stefan staring pointlessly at the switched-off television while I listened to his shaky breathing, until he soon fell asleep to the sound of raindrops pelting at the windows. 

 


	9. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: This chapter contains a mildly graphic suicide attempt, including suicidal thoughts and borderline self-harm.**

He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, forces himself to look. 

This isn't him. It can't be. _It can't be._  

All those days that he remembers as if they're somebody else's memories implanted in his mind. 

It can't be. He wasn't there. 

These features seem familiar, but he's never seen them before.

These hazy, vacant eyes aren't his.

These white, cracked lips aren't his.

These shoulders covered by skin so pale that he questions if it's bone, _aren't his._

This isn't him. 

 

He's found the days and weeks that went missing in his subconscious. They're still fuzzy, jumbled, out of order. 

He's been so much worse to the people around him than he first assumed. Too many times, he's given the cold shoulder. Too many nights, he locked his hotel room door against Steve, Brian, and Bill.  _Far_  too many lies, he's told the people he loves. He can't be sure until the clouds completely dissipate from his head, but he recalls too many fights leading to too many guilt-ridden, half-hearted apologies.

It's all _too much._

In the cabinet, behind David's cologne sits a tiny envelope of sorts, no bigger than a few square inches. In it is a bare blade.

He's not sure why they've kept it around, the razor it goes to disappeared in the middle of moving three years ago. Regardless, he's thankful for it now. 

He pulls the blade from the paper folded around it. It's still pristine, having never been used. The gleaming silver distracts him for a good few minutes.

This is it, this little sliver of metal in his hand. This is his key to ending his aches, his thoughts, his disappointment. His legs grow weak beneath him, he drops to his knees. 

He looks down over his body. Either way, this is going to be messy. Normally he would care, blood stains are difficult to remove from any type of surface.

He can't find the strength to care today. 

 

He holds the blade against his left forearm, and discovers that the saying is true: 

His life flashes before his eyes. 

 

He sees his mother and father, and every loving or caring gesture they've made since he can remember. He sees his sister and brother, and the weekends they spent with their grandparents. He sees Sara, who he met just after starting university and quickly formed a close bond with. He sees Brian, the kid he almost never interacted with in school but later became his best friend.  

He sees 23 year old David, smiling at him from the other side of the bar, and David's roommate at the time, Chris, who is now another of his good friends. He sees Bill, and their amazingly easy first conversation. He sees Steve and how their friendship blossomed in a matter of hours. He sees David's little sister, Sonia, who grilled him worse than any sceptical parent the first time they met. He sees David and Sonia's baby sister, Gina, who loved him immediately. He sees Alex, who took care of him those first few scary moments in the spotlight. 

 

He sees every niece and nephew from both sides of the family,

every person he's met from as far back as he can remember,

every smile he's put on somebody's face,

every tear he's put in somebody's eye,

every decision he's made since he first learned what a decision even was.

He sees every person who has ever influenced him in any way, and every person he may have influenced at some point.

 

 _'Stefan?'_  David calls, though it goes unheard.

 

Suddenly, he feels every ache in every inch, stretching from his scalp to the tips of his toes. Every ounce of pain he's ever inflicted on anyone else crashes through his body.

Every lie he's ever told rings through his ears at a deafening pitch, every empty apology he's spoken shreds his heart, every tear he's caused somebody else burns his eyes. 

It's too much to take. He's tired of living in a cycle of hurt, constantly being afraid of what his own consciousness thinks of him, relying on a circle of blended chemicals to make getting out of bed a possibility. 

 _Fuck up!_  his inner voice shouts.  _Liar, back-stabber, wasted away junkie!_

 

_'Stef? You okay?'_

 

The inner conflict continues. _You're worthless anymore. The music feels like nothing, your family barely hears from you. All you're going to do is keep hurting them, so get it over with already._

Except... He can't bring himself to leave so many people like this. He wants to fix his mistakes, right his wrongs, issue quite a few apologies with meaning behind them.  

The bathroom door slowly opens. 'Stefan... what are you doing?'

 

He comes to realise he's staring blankly at the sink, the blade hovering over the skin of his left wrist. David's kneeling next to him, beginning to break down and struggling to breathe.

He's shivering uncontrollably, soaked in his own sweat, and freezing from the cold ambience of the porcelain surroundings.     

'Please, baby, please, put it down. Please...' David begs.

His body betrays him and refuses to move, his hand has cramped with the razor blade tightly secured between his fingers. 

'Take it, David,' he nearly pleads. 

David leans forward and delicately extracts the razor from his grip. He chokes when he hears it hit water. 

Something inside releases, he turns and cradles David's face in his hands. He brushes his thumbs across David's cheeks, attempting to wipe away the abundant moisture. 

'I want to stop being a disappointment. I want to stop hurting you, but I don't know how.'

'Never do that again, okay? Please, never again.'

He's slightly uncomfortable agreeing to this. What if his thoughts get the best of him again? And what if he can't stop them? 

Then he sees the uncharacteristic sadness still in David's eyes. He realises he's barely seen David smile recently, and at that, certainly nothing near genuine. 

'Never again,' he vows. 

He allows himself to get lost in the way David holds him. Protectively tight, so tight it should hurt, but it doesn't. David has always had a uniquely gentle touch. 

The idea causes him to think back to the morning this all started, and David holding him against the wall. 

'Why didn't you stop me?' slips out.

David pulls back just enough to help him up. 'What do you mean?' 

'Yesterday.' He thinks for a moment. Was it yesterday? The conventional measures of time are still a bit blurry. 

He clarifies, 'When... When I left. You didn't pin me down, you didn't touch me at all. Why?'

By now, they've found their way back to the sofa. He follows David's lead and stretches himself along the length of the couch with his back resting on David.

'Because it had to be your choice to make. If I would have kept you here against your will, sure, maybe you would have gotten clean, but you would resent me too. And you probably wouldn't  _stay_  clean for very long. I wanted you to understand that I'm doing this because I care about you, and this isn't only about breaking an addiction, you need to heal too.'

David takes a deep breath and continues. 'To be honest, I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did. I was hoping to talk to you, explain why I did what I did and then show you myself. I'm sorry if I scared you, and I... I'm sorry for pinning you down. It was barbaric, and mean. I don't know what came over me, I'm sorry.'

He almost wants to laugh. After every horrible thing he's done, and  _David_  is apologising for some tough love, if that, and one justifiable outburst. 

'It's okay. I understand.' 

David kisses the top of his head, lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. 

He savours it. 

 

'Where does it hurt?' 

The question is not one he was expecting. 'It's kind of... everywhere,' he shrugs. 

He feels David shift slightly behind him. 'Where does it hurt the most?' 

He takes a moment to think. His right knee has been especially sore as of late, his spine feels unnaturally crooked, his left shoulder bears phantom brush burns from guitar straps. 

However, he considers these to be battle scars that he's grown used to over the years. What he's not used to though, is the needle-like pain prickling through the bottom of his left palm. 

'Here, I guess.' He points just above his up-turned wrist. 

David smooths both hands down the extremity in question, then gently kneads at the sore spot with both thumbs. He looks up at David, more than a bit puzzled. 

'What are you doing?' 

'Just relax, baby. I think you've needed this for awhile now.'

He's confused, feels undeserving of the great lengths David is going to in order to help him. On the other hand, he doesn't question it and counts his blessings, if for nothing else, simply because David is so close. 

 

Over the next hour, he's worked into something resembling an overcooked noodle.

David carefully and meticulously unties every muscular knot, rubs the thrumming soreness from all his joints, resets his spine to its original and much more comfortable alignment.

Warm tingles radiate from his bones out to his skin and back. A welcome numbness, the most pleasant kind imaginable, sinks through to the depths of his mind. 

He's motionless,

silent, both outwardly and within,

the epitome of  _calm_.

 

This is the feeling he's so desperately craved over the last months. This state of heavy weightlessness is what he's been searching for and chasing after with painkiller/alcohol cocktails. 

Though he considers himself far from sober, he doesn't consider himself drugged out. Not anymore. 

He notices that this contentment was facilitated by David, rather than a pill. He decides to appreciate the fact and stop thinking before his mind starts up again. 

 

'Feeling any better?' David asks. 

He finds that proper speech won't happen. An _'Mhm,'_   floats out from deep in his throat. 

David pulls a blanket over him and sits on the floor in front of the sofa, 

remaining on standby, ready to listen.

 


	10. Hate

It wasn't long before I noticed Stefan had fallen asleep. He'd slept so much since he came home, but he still looked so tired. I sat there for an hour, just watching his chest expand with every breath and a thin sheen of sweat appear across his forehead. His fever eventually broke but started returning twenty minutes later. I knew I couldn't sit there forever, so I decided to start a good pot of soup.

An hour stretched into three, which doubled to six. The cooking was finished, the flat was spotless, (save for a small load of laundry that could wait) and I had no inspiration to write. With nothing to do, my mind was no longer distracted...

 

How could I have been so stupid? I knew that blade was still around somewhere, but I never thought to look for it. I cleaned out the medicine cabinet and it still didn't occur to me to move the one bottle I haven't touched in a year. God, I just about all by gave my damn  _blessing_  for one of the most sensitive, and now fragile, people to end his life. I laid my head on the kitchen table and finally let everything go. I easily could have lost Stefan right there in our bathroom, he was less than an inch from tearing his own veins apart. The image kept popping up in my head. There was no expression on his face, he wasn't hearing me... It's like he wasn't even there.

I'd like to know what stopped him. I'd be a fool to think it was me. Something snapped him out of that trance.

 

While the worrying scene continued to replay, I started questioning the entire situation. What was I even doing? What if Stefan needed medical attention? I sure as hell wasn't qualified to know if he was malnourished or if the painkillers had caused an internal injury. What if I was ultimately hurting him even more than he already was? What if I wasn't helping at all?

I hadn't even thought about it until that second. Statistically, there's a high chance that even if Stef got clean, he'd fall into the same addiction again. I barely had it in me to do this once, let alone multiple times. On top of that, the day's earlier events proved that Stefan was not emotionally stable. My naïve self never considered that as a possibility. I had no idea what I was doing. 

Upon admitting that to myself, the phone rang, giving me something else to focus on. Thankfully, it was Bill. Yet another thing I hadn't taken into consideration: What to tell Stefan's family. 'Post-tour flu' wouldn't work forever... 

 

_'Hey, it's been a couple of days. Just wanted to know how you're doing.'_

'We're... we're okay.' I half-lied. 'Stefan's sleeping right now. Actually, he's been sleeping  _a lot,_  but that's good... I think. He hasn't eaten anything since he came home, though. Hopefully he'll be able to keep soup down.'

_'And what about you?'_

I tried to be nonchalant. 'Oh, I'm okay.'

_'David.'_

'Bill.' 

_'You're a crap liar to begin with, and that was a horrible attempt.'_

I sighed. '...I don't know.'

_'Are you sleeping alright?'_

'Yes.'

_'Are you eating?'_

'Yes.'

_'Do you want me to come over and give you a break for awhile?'_

'Oh, no. I'm okay.'

_'David.'_

'Bill.'

_'We've just been over this. You sound... tired. Do you want me to come help?'_

'Really, I'm fine. There's nothing to even help with.' Suddenly an idea hit me. 'Actually, there is something...'

_'Yes, anything. What do you need?'_

'There's a girl with the crew, I don't know her name, but Stefan said she looks like his sister.'

There was a short pause. _'You want me to talk to Alex, maybe find out who she is?'_

'No, no. There's really no need to get Alex involved, honestly. Look, I'm not sure what my intentions are.'

_'I'll find out what I can. I'll try not to bother you too much, but please call me if you need something.'_

'Okay. Thank you, Bill.' 

With that, we both hung up. 

 

* * *

 

In front of him, a small, round man in a red hat speaks Spanish with an obvious tone of urgency. It's difficult for him to pick up specific words with the speed. 

He groans and rolls over, not willing to face anyone besides David. 

He hears a woman now, also speaking quickly. She regards the strange man as  _David._  

Feeling groggy and thoroughly confused, he rolls again. This time, a blurry room that he vaguely remembers clears into his sight. The odd looking people seemingly exit through the television. 

David turns around, most likely alerted by his tossing. The screen goes dark, the room silent. 

'Hey, how are you feeling?'

He blinks, disoriented. 

'Who... who was that?'

His voice holds an underlying want to simply go back to sleep. David places a cool hand on his forehead.

'Nobody else is here, baby.' 

He lightly shakes his head, removing the thought entirely. 

'There's soup in the kitchen. Do you want some?' David asks.

He understands the question to be rhetorical. The assumption is proven correct as David softly smiles and disappears through the doorway. 

He lays motionless for what feels like an eternity, aching, hurting,

aching to not hurt anymore. 

 

The challenge of trying to remember anything goes unconquered. Yet again.

However, certain things are cemented in his mind. 

He knows he's home for roughly 6 weeks, though he's not sure how much of that time is left. 

He knows David's aware of his disappointing behaviour, but he can't remember to what extent. 

 

 _Anywhere but here,_ he wishes.  _Anywhere._

 

David finally returns, carefully balancing a bowl in one hand and a plate in the other. 

He just wants to be alone. In this moment, he'd do anything to get David to leave. He doesn't understand why David is even here.

'Why are you still here?'

David doesn't answer. 

'Why are you still here?!' he shouts. 

Again, David doesn't answer. 

He's fed up with bullshit. 

'Just get out!'

David places the bowl and plate on the table, glances at him with a sad, hollow look. 

'I'll be on the fire escape.'

The clunk of a wooden window frame confirms that he's alone. 

He scowls at the kind gesture sitting in front of him, carefully stands and takes in his surroundings. The flat looks so bare, minute little things having been locked away.

He heads for the studio, hoping with all of his being that he's outsmarted David. Disappointingly, the top drawer is still sitting on the floor, where he left it

revealing a bare wood backing. 

The short walk across the room and down the hall has highlighted how weak he's become. Holding him up are two trembling toothpicks. He gives up on his search, goes back to the sofa, 

eats his soup. 

He's not hungry, but as much as he doesn't want to let himself admit,

it tastes good.

 

As the meal hits his stomach, it punches him in the gut. 

Food was not an option today, 

David doesn't always know best. 

 

He curls up in the thick covers wrinkled along the couch, ravels the duvet corner to corner around himself. 

Sleep is a welcomed escape. 

Soon he finds out

sleep is not an option today, either. 

 

The all-too-familiar twisting runs through his middle. 

He instinctively sinks to the floor and lets his head roll into the bin that's been placed next to the sofa. 

 

The knives come back, this time with a vengeance.

He shakes, and cries, grasps for something to hold on to. 

The last bit of energy escapes from his body, propelled by the soup he's just consumed. 

The room spins, faster and faster. Never mind that his eyes are forced shut, he can feel it.

It only makes him feel weaker. 

His extremities go cold, it's all he can do to keep himself from falling flat on his back. 

Strong heaves continue to shake deeper than his core. 

 _I'm sorry,_ he cries, though it doesn't come out. 

_I'm sorry. Please, I'm so sorry._

All he can do is let the tears pour from his raw eyes. 

 

The relief is not sudden this time. 

Slowly, his stomach stops churning, his heart stops pounding, his lungs fill with air again. 

The circular motion never ceases and he can't lift his arms. 

He clumsily nudges the bin away from him, finally gathers just enough strength to grab the corner of the napkin next to the soup bowl. 

He wipes his mouth, outside and in, tosses it barely onto the table. 

 

_I'm sorry. I mean it, I'm so sorry._

 

He can hardly keep himself upright, trying to breathe is a joke. His chest caves in with every choke of a cry.

David stops in the doorway but rushes over upon finding him on the ground. Again.

'I'm sor-ry. I mean it, pl-ease believe me. I'm s-sorry,' he stutters out between breaths. 'I'm so-sorry. I am.'

He falls pliant against the warm body behind him, carefully winding around his shivering own.

'Shh,' David hushes. 'I'm here, it's okay.'

'I'm s-sorry, I'm-m sorry. Ple-please don't leave m-me alone.'

'I won't.'

'Don- le-leave me alone. Please.'

David's fingers weave between his, concerned kisses over his shoulder calm his panicking mind. 

'I'm sorry, baby. I won't leave you again. I'm here.' 

 

A slow, even heartbeat seems to penetrate through the thick duvet, through his quivering ribcage. An invisible tether secures around the rapidly pumping muscle in his chest. There's nothing there, no string, no rope, no length of wire physically attaching him to David. But he can  _feel_  it. It's exactly what he needs. 

For minutes that feel like hours, there's nothing. Just him, and David, and breathing. There's nothing around them, nothing above or below, nothing behind or beyond them. There are no echoes of hatred in his ear, no visions of his spiteful outbursts in his eye,

no guilt shredding at his soul. 

 

A faint whisper finds its way in. 

_'Baby? I'm gonna help you onto the sofa.'_

He gives a tiny moan of consent. 

He doesn't even feel himself being lifted. He only feels a sense of weightlessness, momentarily being suspended in time. 

 

Days go by, or so he thinks. Slowly, thoughts begin to float through his mind again.

 

_He hates me._

_Who hates you?_

_He hates me, and I can't understand why. We're not the same. Sometimes he loves me. Sometimes. Like we used to be. We're different now._

_What makes you think he hates you?_

_He tells me. All the time. No, not all the time. A lot._

_Like when?_

_When I ask him not to drink, or try to talk to him. If I check on him in the middle of the night when we're on the bus._

_But he loves you sometimes?_

_He cries, begs me to hold him, tells me he needs me and he's sorry. He says he loves me. And then sometimes we stay in, just the two of us. He doesn't drink and I pick the music and we laugh. He laughs. We're not the same and I can't understand._

_Well, why do you hate me?_

_I don't. I say it too often, but I don't._

_Why do you tell me then?_

 

Help.

An avalanche crashing the opposite way rips through serenity. Time becomes most important above all else. He can't get up fast enough. 

He can't get up at all. 

Debris of broth and liquefied vegetables pull a sickening U-turn, suddenly flowing upstream. He can't sit forward fast enough. 

He can't move at all.  

He thought he'd already hit his most pathetic moment. If he can't get his head up in the next fraction of a second, that pathetic moment will be now. 

 

Comforting hands come from nowhere, the world flips around in an instant. 

The former contents of his stomach barge their way through. A miraculous save, just in time. 

It's simply painful. He's so weak already, his body is disintegrating further with every internal push forward. His throat is on fire. He questions if it's an acceptable distraction, or just another ache to add to the ever-increasing list. 

Gradually, the flames against his sore insides stop. 

 

There's nothing left, he's out of resources. Everything's cold.

He shivers, the involuntary movement being the best he can do. 

Surely, this is Hell. Why else would he be burning from the inside-out, but freezing solid through ice-road veins?

Scared, hurting, begging for it to be over. End. 

End. 

 

_Help. Please help me._

 

'Stefan, lo-look at me. Please, just open your eyes.'

There's something different that he sees.

Fear.

'Please, make it stop,' he hardly whispers. 'Help me, please. Get me out of here. _Please.'_

'I don't know... I don't know what to do.' David cries, trembles. 

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Please, please help me. I'm so cold. David, I'm scared. I need you right now. Please.' 

He's drained. Helpless.

Giving up.

 

David freezes. 'Okay. You have to trust me.' David stands and pulls the covers down. In an instant, his shirt is gently ripped off. David's hits the floor with a soft flop.

 _'Please,'_  he cries.

'I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise. Just trust me, you're gonna be okay.'

The possibility of coming out alive begins to seem real again. David climbs over him, lays behind him on the couch, tucks the duvet around both of them.

David's skin against his is enough to keep him going for the moment. It's an inviting temperature, already starting to ease the searing heat boiling his bones. David's arms secure around him keep him from floating beyond the world. The knot of fingers around hands are a tangible sense of hope. 

Still, tears stream down his face, prayers for an end flow in a continuous murmur. 

Behind him, David's falling apart. He can feel it in the heartbeat that's anything but steady and even, the little earthquakes obviously rumbling through David's spirit and the aftershocks terrorising David's frame. 

'You're gonna be okay. I'm right here, I'm not leaving you. You'll make it through this, I know you will.' David softly says over and over, 'You'll be okay,' with a desperately sincere apology every third repeat. 

 

A beat evident in echoing pleas, unpredictable notes in a quivering voice that somehow work. It's a lullaby.

 

A fucked up lullaby born from shame, and fear, and dependency. Spawned from twisted emotions strangling the life out of reality like invasive tree roots. 

Thoughts that took on their own form, becoming uncontrollable creatures attacking the most vulnerable parts of his subconscious,

to the point where a slow poison was all that would soothe. 

A sad, difficult lullaby, the conclusion of long-term observation of internalised hatred and skewed vision.

The result of knowing the consequences but not understanding them. 

 

It's a calming night-song inspired by the things one wishes to never see the light of day, being broadcasted out from the sun itself.  

Shadows, in life and in the mind. 

Bareness in all but the physical form.

 

It's a lullaby of promises, and mistakes, and pain.

And love. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm a shitty person and if you're reading this, thank you for your patience and for reading this far. 
> 
> In case you're curious, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUQW0F2tACM) is what David's watching when Stef wakes up.


End file.
